


You Give Me Butterflies

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Some Humor, Some angst, sort of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people are afraid or uncomfortable at the act of pure physical contact. Some hate when another encroaches their personal space, feels the other is merely intruding one’s usual acceptable limits. Napoleon truly believes Illya falls under that category. </p><p>The one where Napoleon and Illya wants to do more than just be close to each other and Gaby sometimes get in the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Give Me Butterflies

“What is this?” Illya asks. 

The smell of spices and tomatoes fill the apartment and it is starting to make Illya’s stomach rumble hungrily. He shuffles his way towards Napoleon in the kitchen, stops right behind him to peek over his shoulder. 

“Smells good.”

Napoleon turns his head at Illya.

“It’s beef stew, Peril.”

Illya hums. “Ah, no wonder. Brings me back to the time when I was little. My mother used to make this,” he says with a small reminiscing smile. “I remember.”

Napoleon eyes light up hearing that. He recalls their first conversation and how he’d chastised his mother harshly in front of him and now, here they are and he’s listening to Illya speak fondly about her. They have surely come a long way since Berlin. 

“Well, I’m not sure whether this will taste like your mother’s but it’s almost done and we’re having this for dinner,” he says before turning his attention on the bubbling pot in front of him once again. He then brings the stew to a simmer, gives it a good stir. 

“Go set up the table will you?” he tells Illya who’s still hovering behind him.

“Why can’t Gaby do this?” he argues, eyes Gaby who’s sitting on a stool by the kitchen counter, going through their mission dossiers.

“Because Gaby is busy reading,” she answers without lifting her eyes from the papers in her hands. “And besides, it’s not always a lady can get two gentlemen to dot on her like this.”

She does look up after that and wriggles her brows playfully at Illya, making the Russian rolls his eyes. He simply ignores her then moves over to Napoleon’s left, places a hand on his shoulder. “It looks good,” he mutters, his voice close to Napoleon’s ear. Napoleon gives Illya a side glance and grins. “It is good, wanna have a sneak taste?” 

Illya nods. Napoleon takes a nearby spoon, scoops a little of the broth and feeds a mouthful for Illya to taste. “Good?” he asks and watches as Illya nods in approval. 

“Delicious, Cowboy,” he says, licking his lips. Illya’s eyes might have stared at Napoleon’s a second or two longer than he probably should. When Gaby lets out a slight cough at the sight in front of her, Illya says he’ll set up the table just like Napoleon had asked him to and quickly leaves the kitchen.

“You know, I could never imagine that happening a few months back.”

Napoleon turns the stove off and moves to the sink to wash his hands before turning to see Gaby giving him one of her knowing smiles. After drying his hands with the kitchen towel, he leans against the sink countertop and folds his arms across his chest. 

“What are you saying?” Napoleon asks. 

Gaby places the papers on the table and eyes her partner with a slight smirk. Napoleon looks utterly adorable in his apron get up, Gaby thinks. No wonder Illya’s smitten. She then stands and moves towards the American. 

“For a renown thief, you’re not a very good liar, Solo. You know exactly what I mean,” she says pointedly, her hands on her hips. 

Napoleon glances at the kitchen door, sees Illya busy setting up the table in the other room. He takes in a deep breath. “Gaby,” he starts but she cuts him off before he could say anything.

“I think it’s sweet that Illya actually lets someone get this close to him. And you know well enough it’s not easy for him to do that.”

Napoleon shrugs. “Well, you should know better, having experienced it first hand.”

It annoys Gaby how cleverly Napoleon tries to turn the topic around and even though his words sting, she wants him to know she is not oblivious to what’s going on between Illya and him. Somehow she cares for them both and wants neither to get hurt.

“That was months ago, Solo. Yes, way back then I thought something might actually happen between us. I admit the sparks were there, but as you can see, nothing will ever happen now. Not like how I had hoped for it to be and I can clearly see why.”

“Why?” Napoleon asks. He thinks he knows the answer, figures he understands what Gaby is trying to say but wants to hear it from her all the same. After all, there is still a chance he might be wrong. 

“Obviously Illya has his sights on someone else, that’s why. And I can’t blame him for it.”

Napoleon suddenly feels a little uneasy. He feels like Gaby is scrutinising him. “It’s not what you think. Peril and I, we’re good friends. That’s about it.”

Gaby laughs a little. “You actually want me to believe that little lie that just came out from your mouth? You can’t even believe it yourself,” she scoffs. Seeing the worried look on his face, she then runs a soothing hand on his arm. “Just don’t do the same mistake I’d done, Solo.”

“And what’s that?”

“I realised my feelings a little too late and by that time, the sparks have died down,” she says before leaving him alone in the kitchen to consider her words.

Some people are afraid or uncomfortable at the act of pure physical contact. Some hate when another encroaches their personal space, feels the other is merely intruding one’s usual acceptable limits. Napoleon truly believes Illya falls under that category. When they had first started out, Illya would either flinch or give him a death stare whenever he gets too close and over time, Napoleon has learned not to overstep Illya’s permissible boundaries. He respects him enough and along the way, they’ve managed to earn each other’s trust. 

He hadn't notice though when the dynamics between them had changed. He hadn’t realised when Illya had started openly expressing affection towards him, especially through physical contact. Napoleon doesn’t complain though because he secretly enjoys it. And now, after Gaby has opened his eyes to it, it seems things have become a little more complicated than what he is willing to believe. 

But he doesn’t want this trivial matter to get in the way of their friendship. And as he sees Illya and Gaby talking with each other in the other room, Napoleon decides he’ll simply ignore it. 

And just like the saying goes, if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. 

 

***

 

A week later, they find themselves in Athens. Gaby has gone off to meet a local contact with the British ambassador while the two boys wait for her in their car, parked just outside the embassy building in the city. Illya’s in the driver’s seat while Napoleon sits on the passenger side. Napoleon fiddles with the radio, trying to find a working station and grumbles when all he gets in the end is static. 

“We should really talk to Waverly about the condition of the cars he assigns to us during missions. I’d like to think UNCLE could afford to splash a little bit extra when it comes to our transportation. This one you had picked is utter trash, Peril.

Hearing that, Illya takes in a deep breath. He feels like strangling Napoleon. With a grunt, he glares at his partner beside him. “Maybe next time, you choose the car.”

“Well I know I could do better but seriously, you could have done much better than this!” Napoleon retorts. He taps his hand on the dashboard and shakes his head. “Nothing works.”

“It is either this or a two door Mini,” Illya mutters. His fingers on the steering wheel tightens as the complaints from Napoleon are starting to get on his nerves. The car at their disposal is a two year old BMW 1500, a beige coloured four door sedan, and at a glance one wouldn’t expect to run any problems with it because it’s a fairly new car but unfortunately, they’d gotten one that had been highly intent in ruining their mission from the start. 

The worst had been two nights ago when they’d almost got caught while fleeing their pursuers. The car had hesitated to shift into gear, not moving fast enough during their escape and it had been due to Napoleon’s quick navigation through the streets of Athens that they’d managed to find a darkened alleyway to hide long enough for their enemies to miss them. Napoleon is quick to remind Illya of that incident.

“We were lucky the other night. Damn car almost got us into trouble.”

“Gaby says the car had gearbox problems,” Illya states. “Anyway, there shouldn’t be anymore trouble for us, Cowboy because we’ve completed our mission.”

Napoleon sniggers after a while, pondering at something Illya had mentioned earlier. “Why didn’t you pick the Mini? Anything would have been better than this.”

Illya rolls his eyes. “It’s too small. I will look ridiculous in it.”

“It’s not so bad, you’d fit in just fine,” Napoleon says, loving Illya’s grumpy look. 

“A two door car and three grown adults? Just no,” Illya argues in annoyance, his eyes narrowed together as he scowls at Napoleon. 

“It’s just your excuse for your mistake, Peril,” he says, his grin getting wider. He leans back after that and starts to fiddle with the glove compartment next. “Look, even this thing is stuck. Not to mention the window on my side is stuck as well. I’m certainly going to lodge a complaint to Waverly about this.”

Illya raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean the window is stuck?”

Napoleon throws his hands up in exasperation. “I was waiting for you while you were getting your kebab in the stifling heat earlier when I’d noticed this. I wanted to roll the window down to let some air in when I realised it’s stuck.”

Illya hums. “Let me see that.”

Before Napoleon could process Illya’s words, Illya has already leaned in across his body to check on the aforementioned stuck window. His left hand goes toward the handle, tries to wind down the window and his right hand rests on the passenger seat, just behind Napoleon’s head. While doing that, his face almost brushes against Napoleon’s much to his horror. His eyes instantly widens. Illya’s face is close, _way too close_ for Napoleon’s liking. He leans his head back against the headrest and holds his breath.

“Umm, Peril?” he croaks. He wants to protest, to say something, _anything_ , but all that comes out of his mouth is a pathetic squeak.

Illya turns and realises what he’s done. One inch closer and his lips would brush against the tip of Napoleon’s nose. He swallows heavily. 

“Cowboy, I’m just—”

Before the unthinkable could happen, a sudden knock on the window startles them out of their reverie and Illya jerks back so hard he almost bumps his head against the car’s ceiling. He mutters something unintelligent in Russian, quickly leans back against his seat. Napoleon sighs and peers up to see Gaby shaking her head at them from outside the car. 

“Let me in?” she mouths and Napoleon duly unlocks the back seat for her.

“Okay, we can leave now boys. Let’s pack and go home,” she says nonchalantly once she’s gotten into the car. Illya mumbles an affirmative, starts the engine and Napoleon only nods. All the way back to their hotel, the ride is laden with awkward silence. Napoleon couldn’t wait to get out of the car, because he needs to figure out what had happened, and what could have happened if Gaby had not interrupted his moment with Illya. 

He needs to do some serious thinking and fast.

 

***

 

Illya finds it difficult to sleep that night. They are due to return to London the next day. Their flight is an early morning flight and due to this everyone has agreed to turn in early. But it’s been almost an hour after they’d retired to their respective rooms and Illya still could not sleep a wink. He’s been tossing and turning and finally decides, after much contemplation, to go to Napoleon’s room. He’s not sure how that would help him, but knows that is what he wants to do.

A few minutes later, he finds himself standing in front of his partner’s room which is four doors down the hall to his. He considers knocking but worries if he might disturb the American. Honestly, he should have thought of that earlier but then his incredible urge to see him has refrained his brain from making logical decisions. To his utter surprise however, he finds Napoleon’s door unlocked when he tries to turn the doorknob. He frowns in worry. 

When Illya slowly enters the room, he is surprised to find the curtains are all drawn together. The room is dark, saved for one dim light coming from a lamp stand next to the sofa where the American agent is currently lying on. If he doesn’t know any better, it is as if Napoleon’s trying to prevent any light from flittering into the room. 

“Cowboy? Why are you lying here? Why aren’t you in the bedroom?”

“I should be the one asking the questions. Why are you in my room, Peril?” Napoleon mutters. He doesn’t seem surprised to hear Illya in his room. Illya notices he still has his eyes closed.

“I can’t sleep,” he mutters.

“And you come running to me?” 

Illya gives out a little snort at his remark. He wonders what’s going on with Napoleon. “Are you alright?”

Napoleon doesn’t stir but when Illya moves in closer, he notices his brows are furrowed together, an obvious pained expression plastered on his face and Illya instantly worries.

“What is wrong? You don’t look so good.”

“Mm hmm, ‘m fine,” Napoleon simply answers but Illya’s not convinced. 

“Are you sure?”

Napoleon only hums in acknowledgement but then suddenly he tilts his head back, presses it against the cushions. He brings one hand to the junction between his shoulder and neck, rubs it in slow circular motions and groans softly. “Just a slight headache, is all.”

Illya knows Napoleon can be stubborn and this is one of those times. “Let me help you,” he says.

Napoleon wants to protest but Illya immediately gets to work. He sits himself down on the sofa, replaces the cushions which had been pillowing Napoleon’s head with his lap instead. He gently cradles Napoleon’s head between his hands, then carefully brushes away the strands of hair that has fallen on his forehead. His fingers seems to linger there a little longer than it should. 

“Peril?” Napoleon croaks, incredulous, his throat a little dry. “What are you doing?”

Illya’s fingers are in his hair, carefully threading and kneading. “You need help. And I’m helping you.”

His hands then wander down towards Napoleon’s shoulders, digging into his muscles, slowly rubbing and massaging away all the tension. He feels Napoleon relaxing to his touch and his partner couldn’t help repress a slow moan from escaping his lips when Illya rubs on a particular sore spot. The moan from Napoleon sounds explicitly delicious and it takes all of Illya’s self control not to react to it. His long fingers then travel to Napoleon’s upper neck, kneading slowly. 

“Feel better?” Illya asks. His voice is thick and raw. 

Napoleon twists his head slightly to look up at Illya and squints his eyes at him. 

“I’m not sure if you’re trying to make me feel better or kill me, Illya.”

The Russian’s breathing is rather ragged. He knows what Napoleon’s implying but he shakes it off because he is good at disguising his emotions.

“Temples now,” Illya says instead, brings his fingers there and Napoleon’s eyes fall shut at Ilya’s incredible touch. He is at the mercy of Illya’s fingers and he doesn’t know whether he’ll be able to survive the sweet torture any longer. He’s decided there and then that Illya would be the death of him.

“Solo, I’ve got the aspirin you’d asked for.”

Gaby walks into the room suddenly, surprising Illya, and her eyes go round at the sight before her. She stares at them with mouth slightly opened. 

“Illya? What are you doing here?”

If Illya could conjure up a hole in the floor, he’d would have jumped straight into it once he’d heard Gaby’s voice. His fingers freeze on Napoleon’s head. “I was just helping him. He has headache,” he explains, realises he sounds rather foolish but Gaby, knows fully well not to embarrass Illya, only nods in understanding. 

“Well, okay,” she answers. She stands by the foot of the sofa, unmoving. Napoleon on the other hand could only chuckle at the predicament they are in. Slowly, he pushes himself up to a sitting position. 

“Thanks for the aspirin, Gaby. You’re a doll,” he says as Gaby hands him the medicine. Then he turns and looks up at Illya who is already on his feet. “And you too, Peril. For your magic healing hands.”

“Okay,” is all Illya could say. Not wanting to stay around longer, because Gaby will scrutinise him further, Illya quickly says his goodnights and exits the room, leaving Gaby and a slightly disappointed Napoleon alone.

 

***

 

In between missions, the agents are required to attend UNCLE’s fitness exercise regime, to ensure they stay in shape for their work assignments. Napoleon and Illya are at UNCLE's headquarters training gym having just finished one obligatory exercise when Illya decides to lecture Napoleon on his lack of combating skills, something in which Napoleon already knows.

“You are terrible at hand to hand combat, do you know that? You need to practise your moves, Cowboy.”

Napoleon only stares at Illya with one eyebrow slightly raised. “Do I really need to hear this?” 

Illya smirks at his partner, something which he doesn’t do very often. “Our mission in Paris, you get caught out by that man, he almost knock you unconscious because you’re not quick enough on your feet.”

Napoleon shrugs with a smile. “Well that’s because I know you’re there to save me.”

“Everything is joke to you?” Illya growls.

Okay, Illya is serious now and Napoleon doesn’t feel like getting into an argument.

“Look, I think I’m more of the technical aspect kind of guy, Peril. Give me something to steal, a mark to target, a lock to pick, then I’m your guy. Guns I can handle although I must say I’m not particularly fond of violence. _That_ I’ll leave to you.”

Illya scoffs. Typical of his American pride, not wanting to listen to other people’s advice. He waits and watches as Napoleon gathers his things but quickly tugs at his arm when he starts to make for the exit door with his training bag swung over his shoulder. 

“But still, as field agent, you need practise. Make it hard for your enemies to capture you. Save me the trouble from having to save you all the time.”

Napoleon stops and shoves Illya slightly.

“Then the next time, you don’t have to do it if you’re going to grumble about it. I can take care of myself, thank you very much,” he answers in annoyance. 

Illya scowls at his reply. Is Napoleon angry at him for some reason? Not wanting the American to get away easily, he goes to tackle Napoleon from behind, brings an arm around his neck in a chokehold. Napoleon gasps at the sudden contact. He drops his bag on the mat and grabs at Illya’s arm around him.

“Peril, let go,” he demands but Illya shakes his head. 

“No, I won’t. Now tell me what do you do in a situation like this, Cowboy?” 

Realising Illya is actually serious, he grumbles. “I can’t believe you want to do this now.”

“What do you do, Cowboy?” Illya asks again. But suddenly, to his surprise, Napoleon’s hold on his arms slackens, his hands dropping to his sides limply. His head lolls to his side, his knees seem to have buckled underneath him. 

“Cowboy?” 

Illya panics.

However, in his frantic mode, he fails to notice the slight grin that has formed on Napoleon’s lips. Unaware he’s fallen for his partner’s trick, Illya loosens his hold and Napoleon quickly takes advantage of his partner’s momentary lapse. He grabs at Illya’s arms again and hooks one leg behind Illya’s knee. Illya immediately loses his balance and falls, his back slamming onto the mat with Napoleon’s back falling on top of him. The American then quickly rolls over, pins him down with one arm across his chest, his legs straddling him. 

“Hah! You’ve underestimated me, Peril. I’m not as slow as you think,” he grins at Illya but before he could gloat about his move, Illya quickly throws him off with a swivel of his hips, then rolls them over so that their positions are reversed. He is now sitting heavily on top of Napoleon. 

“But I’m faster, Cowboy,” Illya smirks. Not to be outdone, Napoleon jerks his hips up, making Illya fall forward, his elbows landing on either side of Napoleon’s head, his legs straddling him still. Napoleon lets out a tiny gasp as Illya’s face now is merely inches away from his. He could feel his hot breath on his face. He tries to squirm, tries to break free from Illya’s hold but the Russian has him completely trapped. Napoleon tries to grab at his hands at his sides but Illya quickly captures them and pins his wrists above his head.

“You know, if Gaby sees us like this,” Napoleon warns breathlessly, “she’s going to have a field day.”

“You are worried about what she might say?” Illya asks, his voice low.

God, their position is so incriminating, Napoleon thinks and wonders if Illya could see the flush forming on his cheeks right at that very moment. “Not actually worried per se, but—”

“But what?”

Napoleon doesn’t say a thing because words have completely abandoned his brain. He doesn’t even know what he’d wanted to say in the first place.

“Illya, get up,” he finally mutters, almost pleads. “I’m beginning to lose the feelings in my legs.”

“You give up now, Cowboy?”

“Okay, Illya, you’ve proven your point, can I get up now?” he whines after a while. Illya only shakes his head.

“I won’t be able to always have your back, Cowboy. That’s why I want you to be good at this. See how easily I could overcome you?”

“So you actually worry about me?” Napoleon asks, still manages to tease despite everything, his voice a little bit breathless. Illya’s face is too close, his lips hovering inches above his. If he tilts his head up, Napoleon’s sure he would be able to capture those lips he’s been dying to kiss.

“Worrying about our partners is normal, no?”

Illya has released the hold on his wrists and he’s bent down so low now, his mouth is practically next to Napoleon’s ear. “I always worry about you, Cowboy,” he whispers.

Napoleon gulps. The low, guttural tone in Illya’s voice sends a shiver up and down his spine. He wants to snake his arms around his waist, wants to pull him down, wants to kiss him senseless. But what will happen if he does that? What’s going to happen to the trust they’ve built around one another? Napoleon wants this, _God he wants Illya_ , but he’s not entirely certain whether Illya wants the same thing or whether he is simply toying with his feelings. In the end, he could only sigh, lets his arms stay limp above his head.

“It’s natural to worry,” he murmurs in resignation. His eyes are closed now, because he cannot bear to look into Illya’s a second longer. 

“So you agree with me that you need to work on this?”

Napoleon nods. “Yes, I agree.”

When he opens his eyes, Illya’s lips is ghosting his. Napoleon swears Illya is about to kiss him when the sound of Gaby’s voice makes him pull back with a start.

“Hmm…what’s going on, boys?”

Both men turn to see Gaby standing at the door, her grin wider than Napoleon’s ever seen it before. He groans, curses inwardly at Gaby’s despicable timing. 

“Illya, get off,” he mutters and Illya sheepishly complies. He offers a hand to pull Napoleon up to his feet. Napoleon then straightens his shirt, rakes a hand through his dishevelled hair. He eyes Illya at his side whose cheeks are just as flushed as his is. Gaby tilts her head at her partners.

“Waverly’s waiting for us, are you boys ready?”

“Damn right we’re ready,” Napoleon mutters as he grabs his bag on the floor and walks right past Gaby. Illya quickly follows suit and only smiles.

 

***

 

“Cowboy is with target,” Illya informs Gaby through his earpiece, careful not to let anyone notice him as he takes a seat on the stool behind the bar. This particular mission has left Illya a little out of sorts. He hates it when Napoleon has to seduce their marks to gather the information they need. He wishes there could be some other way to obtain it but knows, albeit begrudgingly, that this is the fastest way.

Their current target is a Swedish heiress, who is suspected of holding precious art collections stolen during the war. She bids for them and uses them for the purpose of resale or for ransom against high ranking Swedish government officers to secure projects and sometimes, the arts are used for collateral to secure loans for her fashion business. Napoleon is to engage with her in order to secure the locations of her warehouses around Europe in which the heiress stores her stolen collections. 

When Illya had objected to Napoleon’s role, the American had thrown him a disbelieving look. “Do you want to do this instead?” 

Illya had no answer. And now, he is staring at Napoleon in the heart of action.

His fingers around the glass of vodka starts to shake when he sees the heiress teasingly licking the outer shell of Napoleon’s ear. His grip on the glass tightens, almost breaking the glass in his hand. Napoleon and the woman are both seated together in a private booth, but still within Illya’s line of sight. The room they are in is crowded, mostly with lovers, dancing, swaying to the beat of the slow music. 

Illya curses the place, a posh dance club, in which the heiress had agreed to meet Napoleon. She knows perfectly well what she wants to do with him. Illya lowers his gaze and mutters to Gaby who is sitting at the other end of the room, “She cannot keep her hands off Cowboy.”

Illya can hear Gaby chuckle. “Relax, Illya. Solo knows what to do. His roaming hands will get us the info we need. Before we know it, she’s going to spill everything to Solo.”

Admittedly, Napoleon is perfect for missions like these, Illya thinks with a slight annoyance. He fully understands Napoleon’s merely doing his job but he wishes the American could tone down on his charm sometimes. No wonder targets aren’t able to resist him. From where he is sitting, Illya could see how his mega watt smile can easily charm anyone, how simple it is for anyone to go putty under the influence of those blue eyes, those lips. Illya knows this because he has always dreamed of those god damned lips on his.

He clenches his teeth when he sees the woman nosing her way along Napoleon’s jawline, his neck arched back to give her better access. When he straightens himself seconds later, his eyes flick across the room to meet Illya’s in an intense stare through the smoky air of the crowded room.

It takes all of Illya’s self control not to strut over to Napoleon and pull him off the woman’s clutches. 

“Cowboy’s enjoying himself too much with that woman,” he mutters absently to Gaby again who only laughs in return. 

“Now Illya, there is no need to get jealous. Give him a couple of minutes more to finish his act.”

“I am not jealous,” Illya mumbles. 

“If you say so, Illya.”

Illya wants to look away but realises he’s hooked, hypnotised. Gaby is right. He is insanely jealous at the moment. He’s so jealous he doesn’t realise he’s bitten his lips hard enough to make it bleed. 

Napoleon is his worst kind of distraction. Illya knows this and he has to do something about it, because he’s going insane with every passing day of this knowledge and not being able to do anything about it. 

 

***

 

“Cowboy? Cowboy? Wake up.”

Illya is trying his best to wriggle his way out of the ropes binding him. They are both tied up, the ropes holding them securely around their ankles, knees and wrists. Napoleon who is still unconscious is slumped against the wall a few feet away from him. He has a head wound and it is bleeding profusely. 

Their mission with the heiress didn’t end well. Napoleon’s cover is blown when Illya had interrupted their intimate moment, much to Napoleon’s horror and the next thing Illya knows, they’d been bundled into a car by her bodyguards and brought to an unknown location. Illya realises, feels guilty, that his insane jealous rage had caused them trouble but that’s another problem to be dealt with at another time. The one more pressing is to get out of their current predicament.

His mind races, tries to think of an escape plan when he sees a large piece of splinter on the floor beside Napoleon. That must have happened when he was scuffling with their captors earlier. Illya thanks his lucky stars and starts to slide himself towards it. He picks it with his fingers and starts to cut the rope around his wrists. Then, after getting them loose, he begins to undo the ropes on his knees and ankles before crawling to Napoleon’s side. He makes quick work of his binds before cradling Napoleon’s face in his hands. He taps his cheeks lightly.

“Solo? Wake up.”

He taps his face harder the second time around. “Come on, Cowboy, wake up!”

Napoleon lets out a low moan. He opens his eyes to see Illya's worried face in front of him. “What? Where are we?”

“I’m not sure but we need to get out from here soon.”

Napoleon blinks a couple of times and groans when his head suddenly throbs painfully. His fingers reach up to towards his bloodied forehead but Illya quickly grabs his wrist away before he could touch the wound. 

“You are hurt, Cowboy. They hit your head hard when you tried to argue with the heiress’ bodyguards.”

Napoleon remembers now how they’d ended up in that situation. He narrows his eyes at Illya and groans. “God, Peril. Why did you do that? I’ve gotten the information we needed. You could’ve given me a few more minutes to let me complete my job.”

“Her hands were all over you!” Illya hisses and Napoleon can’t help but look amused. 

“Is that a problem for you, Illya?”

Illya looks away. He knows he’s to be blamed but he couldn’t help himself. “We’ll talk about this later.” 

“Gaby?” Napoleon asks after a while. “Is she okay?” 

“She’s safe. I think she’s informed Waverly about us. For now, we need to get out before those goons come back.”

“I think she doesn’t really know who we are, Peril. Because if she does, she’d have her men kill me already, knowing she’d let me in on the locations of her warehouses.”

Illya looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I think she thinks I’m just a petty thief trying to steal her precious art collection. And you’re just my jealous lover who’d come barging into the picture.”

Illya’s face reddens at Napoleon’s statement. He tries to ignore it.

“If that, she could have simply just throw us out of the club,” he argues.

“Yes, perhaps. But she hasn’t figure out the entire picture yet and that’s why we need to get away before her minions come back for us.”

Illya wrings his hands together. “If they come back, I’ll break their necks.”

Napoleon is going to leave all that to Illya. Meanwhile he leans his head back against the wall, tries to think of a more civil situation. He scans the room they’re in and suddenly his eyes light up. “Where’s my jacket?” he asks Illya. 

“Here,” Illya grabs at the garment which is lying a feet away from them. Napoleon quickly shoves his hand inside the inner pocket. His lock picking tool is hidden there, a tiny equipment the heiress’ goons had somehow failed to notice and he grins at Illya. “I’ll get us out of here.”

Illya lets out a breath of relief. He wishes he could kiss Napoleon then but holds himself back. But it doesn’t stop him from tugging the American back when he’s about to get up on his feet. “We’ll talk about what I’d done when we get back,” he says like a promise. 

Napoleon’s nods. “Okay, Peril. I’ll hold your word for it.”

 

***

 

The trio return to UNCLE’s London headquarters a few days after that, thankfully unscathed, and during their debrief Waverly duly informs them to take two weeks off from active duty. Napoleon welcomes the news, relishes the break. He feels they do need some time off work, time off from each other. And when he thinks that, it naturally means some time away from Illya. But he knows Illya still owes him that conversation he’d promised. 

“So, I’ll see you boys in two week’s time?” Gaby says later as she grabs her bags while making her way out of her office. Napoleon envies her because Illya and him have to share a tiny one, where else Gaby have one spacious room all to her own. The perks of being Waverly’s favourite, he grumbles quietly. 

“So what will you be up to?” he asks her and she only smiles. 

“Catch up on sleep, some shopping, along those lines.”

“Well just don’t get yourself into trouble, Miss Teller,” Napoleon adds with a little wink. Gaby stops and taps a finger on her chin, as if pondering his words. “Hmm, I think you should try to avoid that too, Solo. Because I won’t be around to watch over you and Illya for the next two weeks,” she grins.

“Wait, what—?”

Before Napoleon could argue, Gaby is already out the door, and he turns his attention to Illya who is standing by the door, looking a little flummoxed.

“I don’t understand what she means either,” he mumbles. When Napoleon doesn't say anything, the Russian starts to make his way out as well. Seeing this, Napoleon calls out to him, quickly stands from the sofa he’d been sitting on. “And what will you be up to, Peril?”

“I suppose I will rest. And do nothing,” Illya answers. 

"Any plans to do anything else?" Napoleon asks. Illya shakes his head. "No."

His eyes are on Napoleon, studying his face. His forehead sports the nasty gash from their earlier mission, his hair a little messy than his usual pristine condition and suddenly Illya feels the urge to run his fingers through them. He knows this horrendous, ridiculous want he has got for Napoleon will not stop anytime soon. He has to do something about it before he goes absolutely insane.

“Well I guess, I’ll be on my way then,” Napoleon says after a while when Illya remains silent. “I’ll see you around, Peril.”

He is about to walk past Illya when a hand on his shoulder stops him. Napoleon turns his head, looks at Illya questioningly. 

“I’m coming over your place tonight, around eight. There is something we need to talk about. As promised.”

Napoleon flinches a little at Illya’s words, his eyes a little wide. He had just thought, okay this is it, he’s forgotten about that little thing. And I will have my little break from Illya, a chance for me to sort my head out and try to flush Illya out of my system when suddenly here Illya is telling me he wants to come over to my place later, _to talk_? Well, that’s just… _Fuck_.

Before he could comprehend, asks Illya anything further, the Russian has already disappeared out the door and that’s twice now in a space of a few minutes that Napoleon’s left in a lurch. 

Illya does come around at eight as promised and Napoleon lets him in despite the nerves running through his body. He’s not sure what he has in mind, but he decides, how bad could the night turn out to be? This is Illya and Napoleon knows Illya. They’ll eat, talk, have a little wine. It doesn’t sound too bad. And the night, goes on smoothly without a hitch.

After dinner, Illya offers to do the dishes while Napoleon excuses himself to the bathroom. They haven’t gotten to the topic about what Illya had done and Napoleon’s guessing he is saving it for later. Suddenly he starts to get nervous again. It could not be what Napoleon thinks it is, could it? Had Illya been jealous? Or is it because he’s simply being Illya? Rage and anger just complements him well enough.

Napoleon sighs and leans his head low between his shoulders, hands braced against the sink before looking up at his reflection in the mirror. The gash on his forehead is healing and soon he wouldn’t need to dress the stitches any longer. He smiles when he thinks about how worried Illya had been in that room when they’d been held captive. Skimming his fingers along the still visible wound, Napoleon takes a white gauze from a nearby medical kit, to change the dressing, not noticing Illya hovering by the bathroom door.

“Let me help you with that.”

His voice startles Napoleon. He looks up just in time to see Illya’s reflection in the mirror standing right behind him. He wants to protest but Illya’s hand have reached around his shoulder to take the little piece of material off his fingers. Napoleon wants to turn around but Illya only pushes him against the sink, his chest pressed up gently against his back.

“I think I can manage this, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, but his voice is shaky, not quite believing what’s happening between them at the moment. His heart flutters because _this is too much_ , and he knows this will not lead to anything good. 

“Don’t you trust me, Cowboy?” Illya whispers, his breath hot against Napoleon’s neck. His hands that were fiddling the gauze have now encircled Napoleon’s shoulders tightly, the little material forgotten. Illya’s nuzzling Napoleon’s sensitive earlobe and the contact is making his senses reel. Suddenly, he feels soft, warm lips gracing his skin along his jawline and Illya’s actions are making his body grow weak. This act by Illya is something else, they've never ventured this far. The closest they've ever gotten were almost kisses but this, _this_ is sacrilege.

“Peril, what are you doing?” he asks, his voice breathless. Napoleon doesn’t think having rational thoughts at that moment is possible despite his question but there is still that little tiny bit of sanity left in him saying, you’re still able to stop this, before he crosses the line. _Whatever this is that’s about to happen between you both._

“Cowboy, I know what you’re thinking,” Illya mutters lowly in his ear, breaking Napoleon’s chain of thoughts. “Why do you fight it?”

Illya’s arms have wound up tighter around him and Napoleon finally relents, could only lean back against him. He turns his head to face Illya but Illya quickly grabs his jaw in his hand and turns it so that the both of them are facing the mirror. Napoleon could see in the reflection how intense Illya’s eyes are on him.

“I’ve thought about this, us, for a long time,” he murmurs. “I’m not sure if I could hold on much longer, Cowboy,” Illya groans, as he gives a little bite at the junction where neck meets shoulders. Napoleon whines.

“Illya—”

“Let me. _Please_.”

Illya’s pleading is turning Napoleon’s knees to jelly. “Is this what you’d wanted to talk about?” he asks, his breath hitching when Illya tilts his head back, to kiss at Napoleon’s exposed throat. 

“To talk, and do more.”

As he speaks, Illya’s one hand has slid down Napoleon’s waist, starts unbuttoning his shirt with startling ease. Napoleon knows his mind have short circuited for some time, ever since he’d placed his arms around him. He manages one last question, though. 

“Illya, are you sure, this is what you want? Because we can’t stop once…we’ve crossed the line.”

Napoleon’s having great difficulty to focus but Illya simply ignores him, and somehow, without Napoleon realising, his other hand has deftly unzipped his pants, reaches inside, finding its goal. The contact of skin against skin makes Napoleon arched. With one hand stroking and the other caressing his taut belly, it is too much for Napoleon to hold back.

“ _Fuck_ ", he moans, a hand reaches back to grab at Illya's hair.

“I need to show you, Cowboy, need to show you what I’m always thinking about.”

“Stop teasing,” Napoleon hisses, nudging his hips forward for more contact and Illya obliges. And as he continues his ministrations, Illya whispers something dirty in Napoleon’s ear that makes him moan and combust as he comes messily in Illya’s hand.

Later, after coming down from his high, Napoleon couldn’t take his eyes off Illya as he helps him dress the gash on his forehead. 

“So much for helping me out earlier,” he says with a smirk. Illya gives a little scowl. “I needed to attend to much important matters first.”

Both of them are sitting on Napoleon’s bed, facing each other and suddenly Napoleon feels absolutely contented, something in which he has not felt in a very long time. After finishing with the dressing, Illya leans in and smooths a tender kiss on top of it.

“Thanks, Peril,” is all Napoleon could muster.

“I swear to you, Cowboy,” Illya starts as he wraps his arms around his shoulders. “I swear I have not felt anything like this for anyone before.”

“Gaby?” Napoleon asks. He needs to be sure. Illya shakes his head. “I care for Gaby, but is not the same.”

“May I ask, since when?” 

Napoleon’s being brave now, because Illya is letting him in. And he’s relishing this hold he has over the Russian.

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe since the start. Even when you infuriate me so much.”

The sincerity in Illya’s words leaves Napoleon speechless. Illya reaches out, slowly rakes his fingers through Napoleon’s hair. Napoleon’s eyes falls shut at the tender touch, shivers at the contact. When Illya’s lips descend on his for the umpteenth time that night, Napoleon knows this is something beautiful he has to hold on to for as long as he is able to. 

“What shall we tell Gaby after this?” 

Illya laughs and shows him one of his rare grins. “Chop Shop girl is clever, let her figure out herself.”

Napoleon then pushes Illya down the bed, his every breath referring to his. “My self control has gone to shit, Illya.” 

Hearing that, Illya growls, pulls him down by his shirt collar and kisses him hard. He lets his lips go for a bit and mutters, “Fuck, self control, Cowboy.”

Whatever this is between them, Napoleon is going to take it, he’s going to savour it. Because now, Illya is his fundamental, something basic and irreplaceable. And he’s sure of this, sure of Illya, like he’s never been sure about anything else before in his life.

**Author's Note:**

> I borrow the title from a lyric off Michael Jackson's Butterflies.


End file.
